


Atonement

by TextualDeviance



Series: The Raven and the Dove [11]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 13:46:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1690484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TextualDeviance/pseuds/TextualDeviance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After hearing some terrible news, Ragnar is certain the gods must be punishing him. But which god?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Atonement

**Author's Note:**

> Set just before 2x01. Follows [Rite of Refusal](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1674437).

The face of the man coming up the hill was welcome. The look upon it was not.

“Torstein!” Ragnar called out as he approached. “What’s wrong? You look troubled.”

“Not here,” he hissed, and dragged Ragnar off to the side while the rest of the recruits he had brought from Kattegat and the surrounding territory filed into the war camp.

“What? What’s happened?” His blood had already begun to curdle in his veins.

His mouth trembled as he spoke. “When . . . when I delivered Bjorn back to Kattegat, I learned terrible news. Ragnar. I’m so sorry. There was a plague, and—“

“A plague?”

“A fever. It swept through the town without warning and without mercy. Some people made it through, but many did not.”

“Many . . .”

He looked away, as if he couldn’t bear to watch Ragnar’s face. “Lagertha is well. Athelstan, too. He took ill but survived. But I’m afraid Gyda was among those who perished.”

Ragnar’s knees began to buckle. A thousand images of his beloved daughter painted themselves upon his mind, from the first moment she took breath, blood-covered and squirming, to the moment she told him she wanted to be a shieldmaiden like her mother, to the moment he held her before leaving to negotiate with Jarl Borg. That this would be the last time he embraced this perfect gem of a girl did not seem real. Yet the reality of it was evident in Torstein’s broken voice and sad eyes. His daughter was no more, and with her, a part of Ragnar’s own being had died, too.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” Torstein lay a comforting hand on his shoulder.

Ragnar shook his head. “I just need some time to myself in my tent. Can you see that no one disturbs me for a while?”

“Of course.”

He was not the sort of person who believed that tears made a man weak, yet he still did not often show his own to others. Several moments passed inside the tent during which he was not aware of anything else in the world than the pain wracking his body and mind, and when he finally began to surface, his face and the front of his tunic were damp and salt-crusted. As he started to calm, however, a new emotion took over: anger. Anger at being betrayed by the gods, anger at his brother for abandoning them, anger at himself for not being with his family. And, though it shocked him to feel it, anger at Athelstan. It did not seem fair that the gods had twice chosen to spare him—with the sacrifice and the plague—and yet twice they had killed Ragnar’s children. As much as he was in love with the man, he still did not understand why the gods would favor this Christian over his own innocent children.

In his weakness, the blasphemy crept in: What if, he wondered, it wasn’t that the gods had spared the unbeliever, but Athelstan’s own god had intervened and saved him? What if his unborn son’s death had been punishment from the Christian god for trying to sway one of his most devout subjects from his faith—for leading him to commit, as Athelstan had put it, sins of the flesh? What if Gyda’s death was punishment for agreeing to sacrifice Athelstan in order to beg the gods for more sons? What if this budding, unnecessary war and his brother’s likely betrayal was this god’s doing for sacking his temple and enslaving Athelstan in the first place?

In the deepest core of his being, he had known and welcomed the gods in his life. He was descended from Odin, he believed. He had seen the Allfather and his ravens Huginn and Muninn watching over him. He had welcomed the guidance and protection. He had welcomed Thor’s power as it drove his ship to distant shores. He had, in fact, believed that his devotion was what had saved him so far: what healed him after the attack by the earl’s men, and what led him to victory in the Holmgang that earned him the earldom. And yet . . . all of these things had happened before he began leading the former monk to such grievous sins. Since beginning the intimate aspects of their relationship, everything else in his life had started to falter. Was it true—could it be true—that Athelstan’s god was more powerful than Odin?

He felt ashamed for even having the thought, and yet the doubt still festered in his belly, and desperation set in.

“Whatever god is listening,” he whispered, “know that I am sorry for whatever wrongs I may have done. I am but a human man, and one who is trying to live a life of honor. I know you cannot bring my children back to me, but I beg: please do not punish me further. Please grant me strength that I may prevail in this battle and at least see Bjorn again. I am ready to go to Valhalla if I am chosen, but I ask that I may at least embrace my last—my only—child one more time before I am done in this life. I ask—“

“Ragnar?” Torstein pushed aside the tent flap and peeked in.

He hastily brushed at his face and turned. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry to disturb you, but King Horik wishes to speak to you, and, well, he didn’t want to wait.”

Ragnar grumbled under his breath. “Tell him I will be with him shortly.”

“As you say.” Torstein bowed out.     

Ragnar took a breath and returned to his prayer. “Odin or Jesus or whoever is responsible for my misery, I ask you this last mercy: kill me in battle if you wish it, but please do not let me die a hundred living deaths before it is done.”


End file.
